I continue to find Zip Zarella one of the most reliably entertaining and arousing wrestlers turning my crank in new releases these days. I love his body about 85% as enthusiastically as Zip does (which says A LOT). He has that kind of face that makes me unconsciously devoted to doing anything it takes to make him flash his boyish smile (seriously, anything, Zip). I love his combination of playfulness, dangerousness, and his unflinching nod to the gay gaze of a homoerotic wrestling audience.

“This bromance isn’t going to last long,” Coop predicts.

I was also an early adopter for Zip’s tag team partner Cap Landon as well. Charlie Evans’ new releases are just too far and few between to fully satiate my sexy, skinny boy moods, and Cap fills that empty space nicely. Zip and Cap seem to bring out the best in each other in Zip’s Spotlight. They’re posing their contrasting bodies, flexing their mouthwatering muscles and practically licking their lips with hungry excitement upon learning that they get to sink their teeth into a solo Austin Cooper. “Oh yeah, easy night to night, brother, two on one,” Cap purrs, flashing his compelling, superlean double bicep side-by-side with his partner. Astonishingly, Zip shares the mirror, perhaps seeing what I see, which is some awesome complementary aesthetics, with his pale partner making Zip’s beefy, tanned double-bicep that much more stunningly sexy. “We’re green, and we’re mean, baby!” Zip crows, turning to the side and checking out his meaty ass in the mirror (me too, Zip).

“It’s so hard!” Zip gasps.

Austin refers to their simpatico as a “bromance” when he struts his legendary physique into the ring and snarls at the earnest twosome determined to pick him apart. “What do we got, a couple of leprechauns here,” Austin asks rhetorically, critiquing their matching, shiny green trunks. “Here are some real muscles come up in here,” Coop smirks, pumping his own fitness model double bicep intending to swipe away all memory of Zip and Cap’s gun show. “Moderate, at best,” Cap spontaneously disparages Coop’s legendarily hot muscles, not because Cap thinks his own muscles measure up, but as an almost intimate compliment to his partner’s heavy artillery. “You’ve got this,” Cap murmurs from the ring apron, with a little hero worship enthusiasm toward Double Z as Austin and Zip start to circle one another. “Your partner is fucking dead,” Austin growls at Zip as they crash their beautifully built physiques into one another.

“Your partner’s questioning me,” Coop snarls at Zip.

Coop is a fucking beast in this match. I wouldn’t say he’s full-on channeling his heel master alter ego Dr. Cooper, but the seasoned veteran muscleman gets a solid grip on the initiative and wrings a whole lot of anguish out of aspiring “body guy” Zip. Now, I have more than a passing familiarity with Zip’s work, so I’m not too worried that the ring savvy pro can weather the storm and come back strong. But Cap seems a little worried. When Coop shoves Zip’s lower back violently into a turnbuckle, Cap bitches from the ring apron, “Get him out of the corner!” When Coop scoops Zip up into about the third of an infinite string of near coital rear bearhugs, there’s a twinge of desperation in Cap’s voice as he pleads with his partner, “You’ve got to stop letting him do that to you!” Zip’s jaw hangs open, struggling to endure the crushing embrace. “It’s so hard,” Zip gasps, which is lovely double entendre considering Coop has hoisted him off his feet and Zip’s muscled ass cheeks are pinned against Coop’s crotch. “He’s so strong,” Zip concedes with more than a little bit of awe for his opponent’s power.

“You’ve got to stop letting him do that to you,” Cap advises his partner, unhelpfully.

If this were a straight up singles competition between Coop and Zip, it would be a great muscleman vs. muscleman contest. The wild card here is Cap, whose cheerleading for his partner and insults flung at their opponent is stirring the pot. “I”m showing him who Austin Cooper is,” Coop narrates his dominating performance for Cap. “Who’s that,” Cap snaps back with a lot of frustrated contempt. In a rage, Coop abruptly hoists Zip’s 205 pounds across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry in a stunning display of power. “Your partner is questioning me,” Coop says to Zip by way of explaining his growing motivation to break Zip hard. The more Cap spouts off from outside the ring, the worse conditions grow for Zip inside the ring. The 2-on-1 advantage suddenly seems to be backfiring.

Austin: “You want to see see how strong I am?” Zip: “Sure!”

Coop hobbles Zip like a boss and then sends him scurrying to the corner to tag in his partner. You can tell his vicarious torture of Zip isn’t going to be nearly as satisfying for Coop as it will be to bear down on 140 pound Cap directly. While Zip is licking his wounds outside the ring (I volunteer to help you with that, too, Zip), Coop unleashes a clinic of power moves on the lightweight smart ass. Cap’s feet don’t touch the ground for many minutes at a time. Coop hoists him up across his chest with absolutely zero effort and, with a flourish, pounds him down into a violent OTK. Cap screams and squirms helplessly as his opponent impales his lower abdomen with deep elbow strikes. When Coop scoops him back up off his knee, standing back up with Cap cradled helplessly across his chest, he asks, “You want to see how strong I am?” Now, in the moment, I’m thinking that it’s a rhetorical question. But Zip is so entranced by Coop’s power (perhaps still lingering on the memory of just how “hard” that rear bearhug was a few minutes ago), Double Z can’t help himself but blurt out the answer, “Sure!”

“Oh, this is embarrassing!”

“No, no, don’t say that,” Cap protests in a panic. Coop fulfill’s Zip’s wish by gorilla pressing Cap straight-armed overhead, and then draping the skinny boy’s body around his neck like a scarf. Zip is visibly impressed with the move. Abruptly, Coop flings Cap around his neck and, in one motion, violently drops him into a tailbone-trashing atomic drop. Fuck, it’s such a high impact move I sort of wonder if Cap’s prostrate got a little thrill from Coop’s knee impaling him. “Are you okay,” Zip asks his bromantic partner with sincere concern in his voice. Cap literally can’t answer, clutching his ass and writhing on the mat breathlessly. Coop rolls on relentlessly, yanking the skinny boy into a kneeling surfboard, positioning the hold deliberately for Zip to watch the torture play across his partner’s face. “Oh, this is embarrassing,” Zip confesses.

“Come on, tap out, BITCH!”

Look at me, turning myself on just trying to narrate this sexy, sexy bit of this match. Before I get further carried away, let me pan back and just say that I stand up and cheer when Coop basically insists on taking the both of them on at the same time. It’s a great bit of hubris-meets-instant-karma when team leprechaun starts to beat the shit out of him in tandem. Personally, I would have been profoundly satisfied to just watch Zip and Cap rip apart the legendary Austin Cooper and enact a perfectly synchronized muscle mauling. Coop has the elusive power to make me lust to see him dominate as Dr. Cooper, and yet crush like hell on seeing him plowed under as the babyfaced golden boy. “You’ve got nothing, big man,” Zip crows, kicking him to the mat so the two of them can make Coop’s juicy ass jiggle as they stomp him from head to toe and back again. Zip snaps his gargantuan thighs around Coop’s gut, forcing the air out of his lungs, a second before Cap zip ties his legs scissored tight around Coop’s throat, refusing to allow the muscleman any chance of replenishing the oxygen in his lungs. “Come on, tap out, bitch,” Cap snarls in his face.

“My two, little, green bitches!”

That, in and of itself, is worth the price of admission. 140 pounder Cap Landon calling 170 pound fitness phenom Austin Cooper a bitch and, successfully, demanding that he tap out is all I need. It is not all we get in this match, though. Hubris-turned-instant-karma strikes again as team leprechaun celebrates a little too much, giving Coop the chance to rally. Coop demonstrates why he’s a legendary fan-favorite, starting to handle the both of them with power and precision. He isolates them in turn, seemingly feeding off of the reserves that he’s siphoning off of each of them.

“Stay here and think about what you’re going to do, you little bitch!”

You know from the DVD menu that Cap and Zip finish off this collection with a grudge match, so it shouldn’t be too much of a spoiler to reveal that all of that tag team partner love and mutual admiration comes crashing down around them as Coop manages to single-handedly dish out heaping helpings of humiliation. Blame rains down on everyone except for the man who rightfully deserves the credit for the undoing of team leprechaun.

This could have been such a lovely legendary ass kicking.

This could so have gone a totally different direction. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but honestly, the chemistry between Cap and Zip was a thing of beauty. I seriously wanted to see their post-victory love fest, Cap leaping into Zip’s big arms, hugging it out, slapping each other’s asses appreciatively. Cap as the Bruce Wayne’s ward and apprentice, hero worshipping the muscleman in this dynamic duo, could have been so right. Fuck, Cap being unable to restrain himself from treating Zip to an enthusiastic muscle massage as thanks for saving his bacon and captaining a successful campaign to fuck over a legend would have made such perfect sense.

This could have gone a totally different direction.

But alas, bitter betrayal as a set-up for a mismatched grudge match comes in a close second.

]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/14/a-to-z-and-back-again/feed/0wrestlebardh0101_lg.jpgh0105_lg.jpg0107_lg.jpg0115_lg.jpgh0109_lg.jpg0122_lg.jpgh0107_lg.jpgh0114_lg.jpgh0119_lg.jpg0138_lg.jpg0128_lg.jpg0102_lgThe Battle to Be the Best: Classicshttps://sidelineland.com/2018/08/14/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-3/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/14/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-3/#commentsTue, 14 Aug 2018 10:23:47 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41257Holy hell, Mike Columbo is on a roll! Mike’s second victory in voting was a total blowout. It’s the wrestling equivalent of an unmitigated squash, with handsome hunk Sebastien barely laying a hand on him. I love Alex’ description of the action, featuring Sebastien flexing and posing (“like all Thunders guys love to do,” Alex explains). No nonsense Mike interrupts to lock down one in a long, brutal, debilitating series of bearhugs. He throws him to the mat and boot stomps the living shit out of him, finally squatting low in a camel clutch and flexing a big, bulging bicep around Sebastien’s neck in a sleeper. Sebastien taps out in panic, but Mike knocks him out cold anyway (thanks for that, Alex!).

Alex also speculated that Mike may be unbeatable against any opponent outside of BGE, so let’s see if we can give Mike a more competitive challenge with some intramural action. Mike appeared on the same titles as Dom Zacarro, but as far as I can tell, never faced the Italian Dominator one–on-one. Dom is a full 45 pounds heavier and 5 inches taller than Mike, which will certainly count for something in the ring, with no rules and no ref. The muscleman who makes it to the next match will be the one to beat his opponent by submission or knockout. Can Mike make it three in a row?

Vote here, and comment below to share your take on how the victor comes out on top.

Take Our Poll
]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/14/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-3/feed/1wrestlebardThe Battle to Be the Best: Classicshttps://sidelineland.com/2018/08/13/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-2/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/13/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-2/#commentsMon, 13 Aug 2018 09:55:45 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41251The match up between Paul Perris and Mike Columbo was the fan poll equivalent of a major league squash. In fact, I’d say Paul probably managed to execute a front face lock and worked in the splits, but otherwise Mike thrashed the fuck out of him pretty much from start to finish. I’m calling it a totally dominating victory for Mike with smothering face-to-crotch headscissors making Paul pass out from the pain and lack of oxygen.

Can Columbo keep it going in day 2 of competition? I believe his next challenger, Sebastien, was a contemporary of Mike’s, but as far as I know they never literally faced one another (in fact, I don’t think either of them competed outside of their respective promotions). I can’t find stats on Sebastien, but I most definitely got off on watching him wrestle often, so from memory I’m sure he was at least 4 inches taller than Mike.

In the ring, by submission or knockout only, no rules, no ref, which classic beauty wins? Vote here, and comment below to describe the holds or moves you imagine would make the difference.

Take Our Poll
]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/13/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics-2/feed/1wrestlebardThe Battle to Be the Best: Classicshttps://sidelineland.com/2018/08/12/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/12/the-battle-to-be-the-best-classics/#commentsSun, 12 Aug 2018 11:08:32 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41230One element that I find missing in the broad spectrum of homoerotic wrestling content is a tournament. Rock Hard Wrestling took a stab at some mini-tourney action with their King of the Ring series. I wasn’t following RHW closely at the time, but it seemed more a king-of-the-hill scenario than an elimination tournament, though. Naked Kombat did a treatment of an elimination tournament in their Summer Smackdown Tournament a few years ago when I was following them closely, but as I remember, they seemed to lose the thread (like, somehow a singles competition turned into a tag team championship match?). My impression is that the way independent homoerotic wrestling is produced makes a through-story, like an elimination tournament, tough to coordinate. But still, I always think the thrill of a championship belt and the inherent character motivation of a tournament would make typical homoerotic wrestling fare that much more compelling.

So I’m admittedly borrowing liberally from others on social media who have posed “who wins?” pairings for voters, as well as past reader polls here on this blog, to construct my own homoerotic wrestling battle to the best. The theme for this series is the classics, speculatively pitting wrestlers who made it big 15-20 years ago against one another in head to head, no holds barred battles. I’m picturing these matches in the ring, no refs, with the winner determined by knockout or ultimate submission (a final concession when the loser can’t continue, or can’t face the humiliation of continuing). So pins are great, and all, but not explicitly the point. In the spirit of most of the homoerotic wrestling industry, no other rules really matter, but unlike a lot of homoerotic wrestling, winning does matter.

So here’s my first pairing of classic competitors who, as far as I know, never faced one another.

Brad Pitt was making movies when Sean Faris was in diapers. Both men generated a lot of buzz from fight movies, Brad 10 years before Sean. When Sean’s film hit bandwidth, he talked a lot of smack, including insisting that he could kick Brad’s ass. “He’s, what, 20 years older than I am? Hell, does he still have all his original joints?”

Eli Brody had made a lot of money from Brad’s films, and he expected to make a lot of money from Sean’s. But Eli was not pleased to have one member of his talent pool publicly trashing another. It wasn’t good for the bottom line. Eli sat in his office with a cocky Sean slumped in the chair in front of his desk, looking like he’d just been called into the principal’s office.

“Your media relations suck, Sean. The way you’ve handled yourself in the past year has made me question if you’re film quality. A recurring role in a daytime soap opera might be more your speed at this point in your career,” Eli chided.

Sean was furious. “What the fuck!? I’m golden and you know it! I have to have two bodyguards to keep the girls from ripping me apart when I walk down the street,” Sean bragged.

“Girls are certainly one component of a winning market strategy,” Eli conceded. “But I’m not bankrolling any more film projects for you without some clear evidence that you can draw the size and diversity of audiences I need to justify my investment.” Sean sulked bitterly. “You will be in Seattle at this address tomorrow” Eli handed him a card. “You’ve got something good. My instincts tell me that you can be a big star,” Eli said, grabbing his crotch beneath his desk. “But I will not stake my fortune or political power on a not-ready-for-primetime punk. I’ll be pulling together a focus group and mixing you up with someone else from my talent pool. Come ready to show some passion and win over some new fans, or don’t come at all.”

————-

Sean knocked on an unmarked door in a back alley behind an anonymous brick building. A massively muscled blond hunk opened the door and waved Sean in, instructing him to change clothes in a dressing room at the end of the hallway. Sean walked down the dark hallway past door-less, dark rooms with groans coming from inside. Men stood in the hallway wearing nothing but towels around their waists, looking Sean up and down as he walked to the end of the hall. At the end of the hall, Sean found the empty room where he was supposed to change clothes. The only thing there for him to change into was a white towel.

Eli walked up as Sean was frozen, the towel in his hand, uncertain of what to do. “You’ll need to take your clothes off, wrap that around your waist, and then follow me.” Sean looked uncomfortable, but pulled off his training jacket, sweatpants, and tennis shoes, and stepped out of his boxer briefs, turning away from Eli. He wrapped the towel around his waist, then turned and followed Eli down the hallway. “I have a focus group assembled. You’ll need to convince them that you’re someone that they want to watch, someone they want to see on the screen, someone that they want to consume. Your…” Eli paused, searching for a word, “…co-star will join you. You need to secure a submission from him, but you need to remember that the submission is not the real purpose here. In the end, you need to please your fans.”

Stopping at an unmarked door, Eli pushed Sean through and closed it behind him. Sean found himself in a dark hallway with an archway a few feet in front of him. He walked through the opening, into a small room, ringed about 10 feet up by a balcony filled with men in towels. A couple of the men cheered when Sean appeared, and a few catcalled about “fresh meat,” but most of the crowd seemed uninterested. Sean walked into the room, which was covered wall to wall with wrestling mats.

A loud cheer rang out from the balcony as Sean turned to see Brad Pitt walk in, a towel around his waist and a grin on his mouth. “I hobbled away from my walker just to come here tonight and fuck you up, boy!” Brad shouted. The crowd above cheered loudly, a chant of “Brad, Brad, Brad…” breaking out.

Sean sneered in contempt, disguising a wave of fear that grabbed hold of him. Brad was more heavily muscled than Sean had ever seen him. His hair was long, his body smooth, and he was already covered in glistening sweat. Brad’s look in return, surveying Sean from head to toe, gave the impression that he was unimpressed. Sean reminded himself that he was about 18 years younger. He guessed, looking at his opponent, that he was probably also 30 pounds lighter, even though a couple of inches taller than Brad.

Brad flexed a most-muscular pose impressively, sticking out his tongue while staring Sean down. The crowd howled their approval. Brad circled to his right, Sean defensively circling away, maintaining his distance. Brad suddenly closed the distance, hooking his right arm around Sean’s head and locking his head tightly against his side. Brad flexed, and Sean groaned in pain.

Sean clenched his left fist and drove it into Brad’s lower back. Brad flinched, but maintained his headlock. Again, Sean punched him in the back. Brad pistoned his arm up and down, releasing and then re-securing his vice-like headlock harder and harder. Sean fell to one knee, beginning to see stars.

Brad twisted his body, pulling Sean off his feet and underneath him as the two came crashing to the mat, Sean’s head still trapped under Brad’s flexing bicep. Again, Brad ground his arm into Sean’s head, squeezing powerfully. Sean kicked his legs, trying to pull free, but remained pinned in place by his much larger opponent.

With Sean on his back beneath him, Brad pulled Sean’s head off the mat, then with his left fist, pounded him repeatedly in the face. Some voices from the crowd shouted down, begging Brad not to mess up “the kid’s pretty face!” Sean’s brain was rattled, as Brad released his headlock but held Sean’s head in place by a fistful of his hair. Brad ripped off his own towel, and then spun his body around, sliding Sean’s stunned head between his thighs, chin-to-crotch. A chorus of hoots and applause broke out, as Brad grabbed the back of Sean’s head and rubbed his face against his crotch.

When Sean finally began to regain his senses from Brad’s pounding, his nose was pressed painfully against Brad’s golf-ball-size balls. His head was being squeezed painfully between Brad’s smooth legs, and the only thing Sean could see was Brad’s penis growing erect directly in front of his face. Brad leaned forward on one elbow, looking down at his trapped opponent and admiring his own well-muscled body. He reached down with his free hand and stroked his cock, coaxing it harder and harder. He slapped Sean’s trapped head with his cock, taunting him. “How’s the view, kid? How does it feel to be beat senseless by this old man?”

Lacing his ankles behind Sean’s neck, Brad leaned backward, pressing his hands over his head and arching his back, applying more pressure on Sean’s beet red head. Brad’s cock was fully erect now, draped across his arched, ripped abs. Brad held his bridge for a full minute, Sean gasping and growing dizzy.

Finally, Brad dropped his hips back to the mat and unlaced his legs from around Sean’s head. Sean’s head dropped awkwardly to the mat. Brad rolled gracefully to his feet and leaned down, pulling Sean’s towel loose from his waist. Sean’s bright white ass brought more catcalls from the balcony.

Brad grabbed two fists full of Sean’s hair and dragged him to his feet. Brad twisted his torso sideways, wrapping his arms around Sean’s waist and spinning the younger fighter upside down. Brad held Sean suspended in his inverted bearhug, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet as Sean’s legs flopped weakly in the air. Brad looked up at the crowd through Sean’s legs, spread-eagled in front of him. “What would you like to see!?” Brad shouted. Voices shouted from the balcony, “Piledrive him!” “Feed him your cock!” “Powerslam him!”

Brad answered, “I heard the piledriver first!” Brad squeezed Sean’s head, hanging helplessly upside down, between his thighs. Rising on the balls of his feet, Brad hefted Sean high in the air, then dropped to his knees, driving the top of Sean’s head into the mat. Sean’s body spasmed on impact, then slumped to the ground. The crowd erupted into cheers.

Brad crawled on top of Sean, rolling Sean onto his back. Slapping Sean in the face, Brad cooed, “Not yet. Stay with me now. We’re not quite done yet, kid.” Then Brad picked a nearly unconscious Sean again up by the hair, bringing him unsteadily to his feet. Hooking one arm between Sean’s legs from behind and wrapping his other hand around Sean’s chin, Brad lifted his opponent across his shoulders in a rack-backbreaker. Sean’s eyes flashed open as his back was stretched painfully backward across Brad’s shoulders. Brad grabbed hold of Sean’s flaccid cock, squeezing it sharply. Sean cried out in pain. Bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, Brad walked around the room, showing off his prey trapped on his shoulders. The crowd chanted again, “Brad, Brad, Brad…”

Brad returned to the center of the room and pressed Sean straight up over his head, his right hand latched onto Sean’s ass and his left hand squeezing the back of Sean’s neck. Sean hung limply in the air for what seemed to him an eternity. Finally, Brad threw Sean down to the mat. Landing hard on his back, Sean bounced off the mat, before landing again, his right hand pressed defensively against his injured lower back.

Brad released Sean’s leg and began pounding his fists down on Sean’s exposed abdomen. Left, right, left, right… Brad brought his fists crashing down. Sean weakly tried to pull his knees upward to shield his midsection, but Brad dismissively pushed them aside and continued his assault. Eventually Brad ceased the pounding. He then grabbed Sean’s nipples and kneaded them between his thumb and index fingers, twisting and squeezing. Sean moaned loudly, his eyes pressed closed and his head rolling from side to side.

Sean tried to twist his torso, but his shoulders were pinned firmly to the mat beneath Brad’s knees, his entire bodyweight holding his opponent down. Twisting Sean’s left nipple harder, Brad began rubbing Sean’s sweaty torso with his right hand. Then Brad drew his right hand up to stroke his own hard cock already vertical and at attention between his legs. Brad noticed that Sean’s cock was flaccid. “I’m so disappointed that you aren’t enjoying this nearly as much as I am,” he sneered, slapping Sean’s crotch.

Sean tried to squirm one more time from beneath his opponent, but Brad held him in place. Finally, Sean began to strain, lifting his head off the mat. The crowd grew hushed in anticipation. Sean pursed his lips and gave Brad’s right butt check a quick peck. His head dropped quickly back to the mat.

Brad chuckled, “I did NOT feel the love, Sean. I want a real kiss, and I want it right in my crack!” Brad shouted. Light applause indicated the crowd’s approval, as an intense hush fell over them again.

Sean sighed deeply, then lifted his head off the mat again. Pursing, he pressed his lips high up on the crack of Brad’s muscled ass. He held his lips pressed against Brad’s crack solidly, then began to pull away. But as he did, Brad shifted backward farther, sitting squarely across Sean’s face. Sean’s mouth and nose were trapped deep up Brad’s crack, as Brad flexed his ass repeatedly, squeezing Sean’s trapped face. Sean groaned loudly, muffled beneath his opponent’s body. Sean’s hands tapped frantically at the mat. The crowd erupted into applause.

Brad slowly raised himself to stand, his feet straddling Sean’s face. He raised his arms in victory as the crowd chanted, “Brad, Brad, Brad…”

——————————–

After Brad and the crowd exited the room, still chanting and applauding, Sean rolled to his side, then dragged himself to lean his back against the wall. Panting, exhausted, rubbing his head and his abs, Sean was slow to gather his wits about him. He was completely humiliated.

Eli eventually walked into the room, still dressed only in a towel wrapped around his waist. Eli squatted down next to Sean, leaning against the wall.

“Well, Sean,” Eli said. “That was a disappointing performance. I’m afraid my concerns about your PR skills were well-founded. The crowd did appreciate your body, but they were not at all impressed with your performance. Several of them commented that they were appalled that you could have Brad ass in your face with your opponent playing with your nipples, and you weren’t even partially erect. There’s a serious credibility problem that you have with this audience.”

Sean growled, “Shut up, Eli.”

“I’ve cancelled release of your latest two projects. They’ll stay in the can until your talent has ripened a bit more. In the meantime, I’ve booked you on the reality show, “The Next Top Male Model.” I think that’s your best bet for market success right now… look pretty on TV, and maybe you’ll develop some new skills with time. Now get yourself cleaned up and be on the set of your new show next week.”

Eli stood and walked out of the room without looking back.

]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/10/producers-ring-pitt-vs-faris/feed/1wrestlebardPittFaris.jpgPeekaboohttps://sidelineland.com/2018/08/08/peekaboo/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/08/peekaboo/#respondWed, 08 Aug 2018 11:03:38 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41215Watching Drake Marcos stretch out before his Masked Mayhem 13 match reminds me all over again how much he turns me on. His handsome face. His pouty lower lip. His long lean torso. And those legs. Fuck, those legs. They’re just so pretty and punishingly strong. Trust me, Drake’s long, meaty legs can squeeze the juice right out of an opponent.
Like me, Gold Shaft likes what he sees.

I’ve mentioned before my opinion that Drake is an epic underachiever on the mats. He’s been trained by the best. He’s got a short fuse against bigger opponents who try to bully him. It’s magnificent to watch him clench his jaw and shift into overdrive to battle back from a deficit. Drake has this raw, fiercely competitive edge to him that belies his well-earned reputation as a powderpuff jobberboy. Every time I settle in to appreciate a new Drake match, I’m wondering if this will be the breakout moment when finally lives into his potential as a vicious, erotic badass.

Fastest knockout in BGE history?

So I’m lusting over Drake’s legs and fantasizing about that long-awaited heel turn when Gold Shaft silently steps onto the mat behind Drake. It’s like a horror movie, with me yelling at the screen, “Turn around! He’s right behind you!” Gold Shaft admires the view a few seconds, which makes me love him more than ever (which is saying a lot). Gold Shaft likes what he sees, and Drake doesn’t even realize he’s already pinned between my gaze bearing down on him from the front and Gold Shaft’s gaze locked on from behind. And then just like that, Gold Shaft snaps his right arm across Drake’s throat from behind, pulls him to the mat in a padlocked sleeper, and peers around Drake’s head to soak in the sight of Drake’s handsome face going slack. Holy fuck. The fastest victory in BG East history? Possibly.

Gold Shaft rouses Drake to face his humiliation.

Fuck, Gold Shaft is pretty. Sure, the mask exponentiates his erotic allure, but that body?! I don’t quite understand how none of his opponents ever seem to lick his honey dipped muscles from head to toe. I feel like Pavlov’s dog, salivating uncontrollably at the sight of him. When it comes to Drake, part of his attractiveness is how he doesn’t quite seem to recognize how hot he is. But as for Gold Shaft, he knows exactly what a sexy mother fucker he is, and every flex and stretch and angle is dripping with erotic beauty. The way he possesses Drake, slack in his arms, stroking his torso, sliding his hands inside the front of Drake’s briefs and massaging his cock, is entrancing. He feels entitled to lick his opponent’s face and mount him, shockingly slapping Drake to consciousness again.

Make a wish!

For his part, Drake suffers like nobody else. The pathos streams off of his twisted, twitching body in waves. I’m sure it’s what keeps him chained to jobberhood, but nobody wrestling today sells his own jeopardy anywhere nearly as compellingly as he does. There’s a bitter panic pulsating off of him when he’s trying to suck air into his lungs with Gold Shaft’s figure-4 choke almost pinching his windpipe closed. Drake’s muscles spasm involuntarily when his opponent throttles his crotch violently. He has no poker face. When he’s getting buried under, every muscle fiber and choking gasp of air communicates clearly that he’s on the edge of terror and genuinely fears for his safety. Drake goes there in this match and every match, because facing down his own panic and potential humiliation is dizzyingly sexy, and Drake loves erotic wrestling just that much to dance on the precipice of his own horror and degradation.

Arousing

Perhaps Drake’s jeopardy and terror are what turns Gold Shaft on. Maybe it’s just stroking and humping and tasting his opponent’s sweet body under his control. Whatever it is, mere minutes into the match, he’s working hard to keep a lid on Drake’s bitterness coming to a boil. He cranks hard on a side headlock, smashing Drake’s cheek against his smooth chest. He’s on his knees on the mat, pumping viciously, Drake groaning in pain, and there’s Gold Shaft’s golden shaft stretching excitedly out of the top of his white trunks. We’ve seen his beautiful, erect cock come to bear in past matches, but there’s something so sincere and earnest about the appearance of the head of his cock rising like a periscope. He hasn’t touched himself. He’s just so entirely turned on by wrestling Drake that his cock refuses to be contained. I so fucking love watching wrestlers who are experiencing the same erotic thrill I am.

Drake makes his tormentor suffer

My take is that this is not a squash. Drake is a tough mother fucker who can give opponent’s twice his size a full dose of hurt, so he gives Gold Shaft a serious run for his money. In fact, there’s a lush, tit-for-tat revenge sleeper just a few minutes after his own shocking undoing out of the gates that momentarily strokes those hopes of mine that Drake may harness all of that sensational wrestling skill and competitive drive to drag an opponent kicking and screaming to the edge of terror that he knows so intimately. But soon enough, Drake starts getting buried under, submitting as much to his own demons as to his opponent. Gold Shaft knocks him out again and again, possessing Drake’s vulnerable body repeatedly, and then slapping him back to his living hell. It’s not a full on squash, but Drake should definitely be in the running for jobber of the year again.

Readers may think that they know this world. Many of the names may seem familiar. You may think you’ve been to the places mentioned. But you haven’t. Because this world exists a half-blink to the left of the world you live in. In this world, mass media have outgrown the confines of national boundaries or legal regulations. Broadcast television has spun off multimillion dollar closed-circuit, membership-only channels that cater to the tastes of niche markets worldwide. The internet mobilized so quickly in the 1980’s that it quickly outpaced bricks-and-mortar political and economic institutions to reshape the world into a place where the virtual and the real blend and blur, where democracy elects regional leaders through virtual social networks, and where those leaders are replaced the moment their poll numbers fall below 50%. The political economy is one instantaneously responsive unit, with the Titans of the entertainment industry commanding power never seen before in history, based on their ability to give the people what they want, what they lust for, what they demand.

In this world, Eli Brody is a Titan among Titans. He cornered the gay entertainment market in the early 90’s with gay broadcast entertainment and membership channels devoted to the varied tastes, erotic and otherwise, of gay men. Generating an immense capital base from his gay entertainment empire, he subsequently emerged as one of the top five titans of the teen girl entertainment genre, benefiting from considerable crossover between the two markets. Riding this wave of market success, Eli rose to the political top of the culturally dominant West Coast North America region in 2004. He has remained the top industry and regional political leader for the longest consecutive tenure of any Titan in postmodern history.

Eli Brody stays behind the camera, but he’s nothing if not camera-ready. At a modest 5’8″, Eli crafts his body daily through swimming, weight training, and private grappling sessions. He keeps his dark hair just long enough to show his natural curls. His piercing brown eyes peer from an angular face with a square jaw and strong chin. The public never sees Eli without a West Coast casual business suit, but his tailored suits frame a strong, slender torso with a broad chest and shoulders. His trousers are amply filled with his thick thighs. Eli is an object of lust not only because of his carefully crafted physique and good looks, though. Eli exudes the power he possesses. Men and women are drawn to him because he commands and controls; he is a postmodern Titan managing the personalities that people tune into, deploying the faces and the bodies that the world consumes. “The talent” maintain a popular following and political economic power of their own, but it is Eli that makes the talent, breaks the talent, and gives the people whatever they, and he, want.

The Focus Group – Daniel Craig vs. Christian Bale

The last movie theater in North America closed in 1995. Streaming internet and home theater technology put sticky floored theaters with skyrocketing ticket prices out of business. The “film” industry had become a high-rollers’ club for entertainment industry Titans like Eli Brody. TV series and low-budget made-for-TV movies vied for marketshare with lower-salaried talent, lower-tech effects, and writers that tended to recycle through one body of plot lines every thirteen years. On the other hand, the “film” industry deployed stars that commanded a mass audience of devoted fans, tech-intensive sets and effects, and cream-of-the-crop writers who recycled plot lines with slightly more originality. Big budget films streamed across the same bandwidth as TV, but sponsorships and audiences could make or break a Titan with one film.

Eli Brody had seen fellow Titans destroyed by poorly chosen money-pit films. Eli had a knack for picking winners, though. Specializing in the gay male and adolescent female demographics, Eli produced a handful of films each year that invariably made money and built the fortunes and careers of elite talent that could deliver what the viewing public demanded.

Daniel Craig was an English actor who Eli discovered toiling in the European Region TV circuit. Eli immediately saw Daniel’s potential and offered him a project contract for more money than Daniel had ever seen. Daniel learned quickly to trust Eli’s guidance. Their partnership transformed Daniel into a “box office” champion who had his audiences eating out of his hand. Under Eli’s tutelage, Daniel’s body was toned, he was effortlessly confident, and he could make his audiences orgasm with a flash of his bright blue eyes.

Although Christian Bale was six years younger than Daniel, his film career was longer. Once a child star, Eli saw Christian as a young adult and began throwing him some projects. Christian first made it big with the adolescent female demographic, but with Eli’s urging, Christian put on muscle, took off his clothes, and hardened the cocks of a loyal gay male audience. With each new hit, Christian listened less and challenged Eli’s career advice more and more.

Daniel was slated for a pet project that he had negotiated when he filmed his last cocktease blockbuster. Eli humored Daniel’s insistence on taking some “high art” roles now and then, just so long as Daniel maintained his market power with major revenue projects. Christian had grown interested in the art-film, though, and he had given Eli the ultimatum to give the part to him, or else Christian would shop his talents elsewhere.

Eli resisted. “Daniel can draw his audience along with him on this project. I’m not sure you can pull that off,” Eli countered.

“What the fuck are you talking about, E?!” Christian raged, his Welsh inflection apparent only when he was angry. “I could be wearing a dress and still make the boys cum!”

Eli filed that idea away, then offered Christian a shot at the project. “I can pull together a focus group to test the audience response to the two of you. I’ll give this to you Christian, if you can win over the focus group. If not, I pick your next project for you with no input, no right of refusal. You do it my way. Do we have a deal?”

Christian smirked and shook Eli’s hand. “I’ll destroy that old man,” he said cockily.

——————————

Christian arrived at an unmarked alley entrance to an anonymous brick building in Seattle. A hugely muscled blond man in a t-shirt and cut-off jeans opened the door when Christian knocked. He waved Christian in, instructing him to follow the hallway to the right all the way to the end and enter the last door on the left. “Change out of your clothes and to get ready for the fight. Someone will come for you,” the doorman said.

Christian had no idea what sort of fight he was in for. Coming into the business as a child star, Christian had managed to pick up productions without screen tests or focus groups as a young adult. Despite being new to the need to really compete for a role, he was beginning to get a picture of the focus group he had to win over. As he walked down the hallway, naked men with towels wrapped around their waists were milling about, going in and out of rooms, looking Christian up and down. Christian found his dressing room and entered, noting that there was no door. The room was empty except for a towel lying on a bed. Christian pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, stripping down to his jeans. Christian looked at himself in a mirror on the wall. He was in top form. His aggressive weight training and cardio schedule had left him shredded, practically zero body fat, with tightly layered muscles. Christian peeled off his jeans and wrapped the white towel around his white Calvin Klein briefs.

A knock at the door frame startled Christian. He jumped and turned, to find Eli standing dressed only in a towel, leaning against the wall. Eli had a carpet of short, dark hair across his chest and in a fine line down the center of his rippled abs. Eli crooked his finger, beckoning Christian out of the room. Christian walked into the hallway, and Eli placed his hand across Christian’s shoulder, directing him down the hallway as Eli explained what was about to happen. “You’ll be fighting Daniel in a small arena. Your focus group will watch, and I advise you to take note of the feedback that they give you. I’m no longer the one you need to win over, Christian. They are. Secure a submission from Daniel any way that you can. Once the match is over, we’ll poll the focus group to see how they felt the two of you did.”

Eli brought him to a halt at a closed, unmarked door. Eli opened the door, and firmly pushed Christian through. Christian found himself in a dark, narrow hallway. About 10 feet in front of him, he saw light and an opening into another room. Christian walked out of the dark hallway and found himself in a small room, about 15 feet square. The walls were painted black and the floor was covered in wall-to-wall black gym mats. About 10 feet up the walls, Christian could see a balcony surrounding all four walls, filled with men in towels. As they caught sight of Christian, a low cheer arose, as some of the men applauded over a rumble of conversations. The room felt damp and hot, a musky smell of sweat and sex hanging in the air.

The crowd on the balcony erupted into raucous shouts and applause suddenly, all eyes seeming to fix all at once on Christian. Confused, Christian waved at the men and smiled. He jumped with a start when a warm hand touched his shoulder. Turning suddenly, he found that Daniel Craig had just walked up behind him from the same hallway by which Christian had entered.

Daniel was a couple of inches shorter than Christian, but more thickly muscled and a little heavier. Where Christian was all shredded muscle, Daniel looked more like a longshoreman, or perhaps a pornstar playing the part of a longshoreman. Daniel’s arms, shoulders and chest were huge. His waist was not as narrow as Christian’s, but his abs were a rock hard wall of tight muscle. A dark blond trail of hair extended downward from his bellybutton, disappearing beneath the towel wrapped around his waist. Daniel’s ample butt stretched the terry cloth, and the bulge at his crotch suggested Daniel was packing something impressive from the front as well.

Laughter and cheers mixed from the balcony, as Christian flinched away from Daniel in surprise. Christian walked backward to the to the center of the room, Daniel following him, holding his gaze. Daniel spoke calmly to Christian, “Don’t worry kid,” he said in his English accent. “I won’t embarrass you… unless that’s what they demand.” Daniel nodded at the men on the balcony, who cheered wildly.

Christian lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Daniel’s powerful waist. Daniel lifted his arms as Christian approached, allowing himself to be captured in his opponent’s embrace. Christian squeezed tightly and lifted Daniel up off the mat, taking advantage of his extra height and pressing his face against Daniel’s mounded pecs. Daniel allowed himself to be held for several seconds, clearly unaffected by Christian’s bearhug. Daniel smiled up at the balcony, giving them two thumbs up. The men howled in laughter.

Daniel stretched his arms out straight to the sides, then with a snap, he brought his fists together, boxing Christian’s ears sharply. Christian yelped in pain, dropping Daniel to the floor and backing away, holding his ears and wincing in pain. Daniel lifted his arms victoriously and waved at the crowd above. Turning his back on Christian, Daniel blew kisses at a group of men cheering particularly loudly behind him.

Christian rushed forward and ripped the towel away from Daniel’s waist to humiliate him. The balcony erupted even louder in applause and cheers, as Daniel turned slowly to face Christian, smiling slyly, completely naked. Daniel rubbed his chest with his left hand while rubbing his right hand down his abdomen and grabbing his thick cock and balls. Daniel’s crotched was shaved except for a small crescent of hair, framing the base of his cock in short, dark blond curls. Christian stood watching, stunned, as some of the men above dropped their own towels and started rubbing themselves.

Nervous sweat trickled down Christian’s ribs as he sized Daniel up. Daniel was almost certainly stronger, and he seemed to know what these men liked. For the first time, Christian began to doubt that he could win this thing. Angrily, Christian darted low to Daniel’s side, wrapping his arms around Daniel’s neck as he came upright to stand behind him. Christian pulled Daniel’s towel, still in his hands, across his neck, drawing it taught, choking Daniel savagely. Daniel clawed at the towel, his face quickly growing dark red. Daniel fell to his knees as Christian towered above and behind him. Christian placed his right knee in the center of Daniel’s back, leveraging his weight backward to choke Daniel harder. The balcony grew quiet, watching intently, listening to Daniel’s choked grunts .

As Daniel’s left hand continued to claw at the towel around his neck, his right hand flicked behind his back. He latched a hold of Christian’s towel, still wrapped around his waist, and tugged it loose. Christian’s towel fell to the floor, and a chorus of “boos” erupted from the balcony. Catcalls rained down on Christian, telling him to “drop the under-roos, kid!” Christian realized that his decision to retain his underwear was costing him with the crowd.

Christian released his choke on Daniel and awkwardly pulled down his underwear. The balcony was filled with competing jeers and cheers, as Christian bared his ass, doubled over to draw his underwear off his feet. By this time, still red in the face, Daniel had spun around on his knees in front of Christian. With a savage look in his eyes, Daniel grabbed Christian’s ankles before he could get his Calvin’s off. Daniel pulled Christian’s feet out from under him, dropping him on his now bare ass. Daniel ripped Christian’s underwear to shreds, then used the strips of cloth to bound Christian’s feet. The crowd hooted and hollered their approval.

Trussed up by the ankles, Christian tried to squirm away from Daniel. Both men had broken out into a full sweat in the heat and musk of the arena. Daniel pursued his opponent, grabbing Christian’s ankles firmly and standing up, pulling Christian’s legs up off the mat. Daniel lifted Christian and spun him around in circles by his ankles, helpless. As the room spun, Christian’s eyes rolled upward into his head, a wave of nausea washing over him. Finally, Daniel slammed Christian on his back in the middle of the room, breathless and dizzy.

Christian kicked to try to free his ankles from their bonds. Daniel reached down, squeezing his left hand between Christian’s sweaty thighs and cradling Christian’s neck in his right arm. Scooping him up in his arms to rest horizontally across his chest, Daniel paraded Christian around the mat, kneading his round ass with his left hand. Daniel came to a standstill in the center of the room, and a hush fell upon the crowd in anticipation of what Daniel might do next. With a loud grunt, Daniel hoisted Christian high up on his upper chest, then dropped him powerfully, driving Christian’s back down across his outstretched knee. Christian screamed out in pain, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Daniel used his right hand to pin Christian’s chest in a savage over-the-knee backbreaker. Then Daniel grabbed Christian’s cock in his left fist, massaging. Christian’s dick responded immediately, swelling, growing thicker and longer under Daniel’s manipulation. Christian groaned as Daniel jerked him semi-erect. Then savagely, Daniel gripped Christian’s cock and balls tightly. Christian screamed, his hands darting forward to try to pry Daniel’s left hand away. Daniel squeezed harder, “tut-tut”-ing at Christian. Grunting fiercely, Daniel pulled upward on Christian’s trapped cock and balls, lifting him off his knee a fraction, and then driving him downward to the mat. Christian’s back arched away from the mat in pain, Daniel’s left hand still maintaining his brutal cock claw.

Both men were covered in sheets of sweat now. Still maintaining his control over Christian’s crotch, Daniel leaned over Christian’s face and shook his blond hair, showering him with sweat. The balcony hooted in approval. Then Daniel swung his right leg over Christian’s prone body, straddling his chest, facing Christian’s crotch. Daniel’s right hand joined his left hand in squeezing Christian’s cock and balls. Christian screamed in desperate pain, arching his lower back. Christian’s arms were pinned beneath Daniel’s thick legs, and Daniel’s ass was directly in front of Christian’s face.

Daniel pulled his knees forward again to straddle Christian’s chest, releasing Christian’s bruised, swollen cock. With both hands, he dug into Christian’s vulnerable abdominal muscles with savage claws. Digging his fingers in and pulling the muscles apart, Daniel elicited a pained scream from Christian.

After a torturous minute, Daniel released the abdominal claw and spun around to straddle his opponent’s midsection, now facing Christian’s head. Daniel massaged Christian’s sweaty, tight pecs for a moment, as Christian gasped trying to catch his breath. Then savagely Daniel clawed at his opponent’s pecs, the fingers of each hand digging into the sides were the muscle met the rib cage. Pressing his thumbs into the meat of each pec, Daniel pulling upward. Christian screamed, frantically trying to pry Daniel’s fingers away from his chest. Christian arched his body, trying to buck his opponent off of him. Daniel simply dug his fingers deeper and pulled harder. Daniel leaned forward, maintaining his pec claws, placing his mouth a fraction of an inch away from Christian’s trembling mouth. “Submit!” Daniel said commandingly. Christian closed his eyes and shook his head no.

Daniel pulled his feet underneath him, then pulled Christian off the mat by his trapped pecs. Christian’s face was contorted in pain, tears flowing down his cheeks, as Daniel dragged him to his feet. Daniel pushed Christian backward into the wall, pressing his body into his claws digging into Christian’s chest. Then Daniel grunted loudly as he lifted his arms upward, sliding Christian’s sweaty back up the wall by his trapped pecs. Daniel’s arms locked, fully extended, suspending Christian’s body more than half a foot off the floor. Christian winced silently, his mouth hanging open and his eyes squinting shut. “How does that feel?” Daniel asked, almost sounding like he sincerely wanted to know. “It looks really painful. Submit now and I’ll put you out of your misery.” Christian’s eyes remained closed, tears squeezing out the corners, but he shook his head no.

Daniel shifted his center of gravity, pressing his full body weight onto his right hand. Releasing his left claw, Daniel watched Christian’s right pec spasm and twitch involuntarily. Then Daniel thrust his left hand against Christian’s balls, squeezing tightly. Christian screamed in pain, then cried, “I submit!” Applause broke out from the balcony, as a chant of “Dan-iel! Dan-iel!” erupted spontaneously.

Instead of releasing his grip, Daniel dipped his left shoulder low. Peeling Christian away from the wall, Daniel lifted him over his head by his clawholds on Christian’s left pec and balls. Daniel locked his arms straight over his head, and walked slowly to the center of the room, balancing his victim carefully overhead. Christian was sobbing in pain, sweat pouring off his body in streams onto Daniel’s powerful body below him. Daniel held his opponent overhead until his own body began to fatigue, his muscles jumping and wobbling with the strain. The crowd continued chanting, “Dan-iel! Dan-iel!”

Daniel kneeled on one knee next to Christian’s head lying on the mat. He stared down silently for half a minute, then leaned his head low, his lips again a fraction away from Christian’s mouth. “The next time you try to steal my role,” Daniel growled lowly, “I’ll fuck you until you split in half.”

Daniel jumped to his feet, stomping his foot onto Christian’s startled midsection. Daniel flexed his right bicep for the adoring crowd, while his left hand massaged his semi-erect cock.

—————————

After Daniel and the crowds exited the arena, Eli had to carry Christian cradled in his arms back to the dressing room. Eli waited with him for 30 minutes before Christian was able to sit up on the bed, his head clearing and every inch of his torso throbbing in pain. As Christian pulled his jeans and shirt over his still wet body, Eli reported “You definitely have a following. Although your performance was significantly harmed by your showing up in your underwear, there was nearly universal approval of the way you endured your suffering for a nice, long time. As I expected, though, 95% of the focus group identified Daniel as both the winner and their favorite. So he’ll keep his project. And about your claim that you could draw an audience even if you were wearing a dress…”

]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/03/producers-ring-craig-vs-bale/feed/2wrestlebardEli2.jpgCraigBale.jpgRe-Runshttps://sidelineland.com/2018/08/03/re-runs/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/08/03/re-runs/#commentsFri, 03 Aug 2018 15:04:10 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41205On the one hand, I’ve been noticeably absent from posting here because I’ve been busier than ever with the work that pays the bills. On the other hand, I’m making more money than I ever had in my life, so on the balance, you probably shouldn’t pity me too much for my busyness. I’m not getting to watch as much wrestling these days, however, which is pitiable. I have a few reviews of recent releases in the hopper, but in the meantime, as a compromise, I thought I’d trot out some old pieces that I’ve published elsewhere (and thus, require less time for me to post here now).

A friend who knows this blog well recently asked me about text-based wrestling erotica. It became evident that he was entirely unaware of the homoerotic wrestling fiction I’ve written in the past. I have a couple of collections of stories in private sites for a couple of hundred interested readers. One of those collections became a collaborative site for other writers to post as well (and thus the first time I got to be wildly turned on by the writing of Alex). I pulled down some of the old stories for this friend of mine who was completely unaware of my fiction catalog, and found myself turned on all over again reading these little blasts from the past.

So pulling these out of the private archives and into the light of day feels like something I can carve out some time to do here and there, to supplement my sparse posting on more current topics. I’ve also been inspired by Alex successfully transitioning his ongoing catalog to his blog, so I know it can be done and there may be an interested audience.

So I’ll post another post momentarily with the introduction to the “Producer’s Ring” world, along with one of the first matches I wrote for that universe. Digging into these stories has already given me the bug to write more, but then that takes me right back to my first point in this post. In any case, thanks for checking in on me in my absence recently, and I hope you enjoy these matches dating back more than 8 years.

Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) has got to be one of the most underrated wrestlers at BG East. I admit, I’m biased. I’ve been sending love letters to his crotch for years now. But objectively speaking, Mr. Joshua is seriously dangerous in the ring, and getting more so the longer he’s in the business. Opponents never seem to recognize the threat until it’s too late. I suppose it’s easy to underestimate someone so sensationally pretty. One might easily assume that a musclehunk so epically endowed hasn’t had to work as hard as others might have. I suspect I’m not the only one who would do just about anything Mr. Joshua wanted in exchange for a close up look at his marvelous muscles and that titanic bulge. So perhaps it’s understandable that opponents might think he’s more show than go.

Chace LaChance channels his inner von Erich

Chace LaChance gives Mr. J a smirk and an eye roll before their Hunkbash 19 match. Like so many before him, Chace appears oblivious to the functional potential Mr. Joshua’s fantasyman body possesses. He just sees a gym bunny goomba who looks better suited to a stripper pole than a wrestling ring. And sure, Chace is every ounce as much a pretty boy as Mr. J. He’s channeling Kevin von Erich, with his bare feet, taped ankles and wrists, and insanely fuckable muscle-ass. Chace is solid as fuck and fits the part of a beefy babyface with the potential to bring a boatload of hurt. Opponents and fans take him seriously in a way that they don’t always do for Mr. J.

Chace rubs his Best Body Award in Mr. J’s face

The match appears to be recorded during Chace’s reign as the wrestler voted Best Body at BG East. It seems like he hasn’t been humbled yet by having Kid Karisma rip that title from his clutches (all hail the king!). He’s flexing in the mirror as Mr. J arrives, and when the recurring Best Bulge winner harasses him a little, Chace is quick to point out that he’s the “muscle model winner” in the room. It’s not the first time that an opponent has basked in the accolades that Mr. Joshua rightfully believes that he deserves. He’s been bitterly watching baby hunks jump in line in front of him as top ranked objects of muscle worship for far too long. He’s had his eye on being a mainstream fitness model for years, but then the likes of Chace keep making Mr. J the runner-up. My theory is that Mr. J’s mouthwatering physique is persistently underrated because no one can tear their eyes away from his mammoth package. What mainstream fitness mag, intent on disguising their inherent nature as softcore gay porn, would want to paste the overtly and over the top eroticism of Mr. Joshua’s Louisville slugger on the their cover?

“It’s dominance time, baby!”

In any case, Chace flashes his von-Erich-esque hotness and ponders his next match, just assuming that he’s got a victory over this erotic dancer in the bag. Mr. J suddenly grabs him by the back of the head and chokes him over the top rope, making Chace’s powerhouse muscled ass quiver with shock. “It’s dominance time, baby,” Mr. J crows.

Chace buries his face in Mr. J’s tortured muscles

It’s a hunkbash, but not entirely one-sided. Chace has been in the business long enough to know how to earn a little respect even when he’s getting buried under hard. The Best Body beefcake interrupts Mr. J’s momentum long enough to nearly decapitate him with a clothesline and scoop him up in a gorgeously muscled bearhug. It’s no secret that I love a heel, but I particularly swoon over a fallible heel. I crush on them a hundred times harder when a heel takes a little taste of humiliation and has to put his opponent in his place with just that much more authority to obliterate the memory of that fleeting moment of hope. Mr. J hoisted off his feet, every muscle clenched in agony, sweet glistening off his forehead, is hot as fuck. For that brief, shining moment, Chace is the barefoot babyface hero with a serious chance of defeating the nefarious bad ass with sheer will and hard work.

Chace’s pretty face pounded into the mat

It’s just that much sweeter watching Mr. J chop him in the neck with his elbow, pound him corner to corner, and then flatten him like a panic with a sprinting clothesline. “This is muscle worship, boy,” Mr. Joshua snarls, pumping a most muscular pose over top of his writhing, whimpering, despairing victim. Fuck, I’m aching to see another Mr. J match with an opponent who’s even half as turned on by him as I am (somebody please tell me that Randy Stanton has been training with Kid Vicious for his rematch with Mr. J!). Mr. Joshua mentions muscle worship several times in this match, lording his superiority over Chace with relish, implicitly acknowledging you and me, dizzy with lust for him. He tugs at the top of his trunks and shoves his hand into his pouch to rearrange the beast within, which, let’s face it, is really Mr. J’s signature move.

“This is muscle worship, boy!”

Watch him strut and flex. Just watch him, eyes fixed on his own gorgeous image staring back at him in the mirror, but with his beautiful body turned at the perfect angle for us to adore his physique. Mr. Joshua wants to be worshipped. I want him to be worshipped. Please begin to flood the mailbox of BGE, insisting on booking Mr. J with an opponent with both the raging erotic desire to worship him, and the wrestling skills to demand the full tour.

Chace fails to appreciate this enviable position

I digress. Mr. Joshua does that to me. Two particular holds demonstrate Mr. Joshua’s brilliance and beauty most directly. First, he wears Chace out repeatedly with headscissors. There’s just something combustible about watching Mr. J shove a man’s head high up between his thighs. Crotch pillow scissors and face-to-crotch scissors alike draw our attention like a magnet to Mr. J’s gargantuan package. Chace just bitches and whine’s about the humiliation. Fuck I hate him right then and there. He should be thanking his lucky stars.

Mr. Joshua manhandles Chace more completely than I can ever remember Chace getting manhanlded before. Over the knee backbreakers serve him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Mr. J’s squats, with Chace racked across his shoulders helplessly, demonstrate what Mr. J means when he repeatedly announces, “It’s dominance time, baby!” There’s one particular camel clutch that has Chace weeping like a sniveling bitch, begging for mercy, owned in total. Mr. Joshua throws him down with contempt, leans back and slaps Chace’s Best Body butt possessively.

Manhandled

Fuck, this match fires on all cylinders. If you like watching a von Erich get plowed under and owned, body and soul, or if you’re even half the Mr. Joshua fan I am, pull up a chair. Mr. Joshua is back to deliver a message. Anybody jumping in line in front of him for muscle worship glory had better watch his back.

The body and bulge to beat
]]>https://sidelineland.com/2018/07/09/always-the-brides-maid/feed/0wrestlebard0806_lg.jpg0804_lg.jpgh0802_lg.jpgh0803_lg.jpg0916_lg.jpgh0806_lg.jpg0811_lg.jpg0919_lg.jpg0823_lg.jpg0837_lg.jpg0831_lg.jpg0833_lg.jpgTriple Zhttps://sidelineland.com/2018/06/24/triple-z/
https://sidelineland.com/2018/06/24/triple-z/#respondSun, 24 Jun 2018 20:44:57 +0000http://sidelineland.com/?p=41173I’m a simple man. I like word play and alliteration. I enjoy well told stories with compelling characters. And I love hotly muscled, mismatched hunks making each other scream.
Z-Man is perpetually perfect.

Zip Zarella’s sensational schooling of Z-Man in Hunkbash 19 has all the required ingredients to make my mouth water. I’m sure I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, but I am 100% positive that Z-Man has a decrepit portrait of himself aging in a dusty attic somewhere. He’s fucking inhuman! To say that his physique is on point in this match is the least newsworthy statement in history. His physique is ALWAYS on point. My opinions of his wrestling have waxed and waned over the years, but his sexy-as-fuck, luxuriously ripped muscles have remained perpetually and permanently perfect.

Zip Zarella sees you looking.

Then there’s Zip Zarella. I’m just about ready to offer to throw down with ANYONE who wants to challenge me as his biggest fan. His boyish babyface is cute as a fucking button, which makes his gorgeously inked muscles just that much more breathtaking. I know that his day job is as an indy pro narcissist in the made-for-the-masses variety of wrestling, but that combo of boy-next-door dimples and gay porn-ready body is simply perfect for pro wrestling for a gay audience, as far as I’m concerned.

Indy Pro Z vs. Underground Phenom Z

The narrative device is pristinely simple. Z-Man is, unquestionably, a soft-core physique model who’s made mint moonlighting as a ham sandwich for gay wrestling audiences forever. So his strut and smirk just piss the fuck out of Zip, who perfected his craft night in and night out in front of live fickle indy pro wrestling audiences. But in the BG East universe, let’s face it, Z-Man is the The Man in this match. All he has to do is snap his fingers and clench his ass cheeks and an army of gay wrestling fans would cum drooling all over themselves ourselves. In our corner of the universe, Zip is a newbie still building his brand. Of course, I was an extremely early adopter, but BGE fans are still deciding how to respond to Zip.

“Want to see a good view?”

Honestly, I’ve seen a lot of indy pro wrestlers dabbling in wrestling for gay audiences who convey, quite clearly, overall apathy for the sexual objectification that is a key ingredient in what we’re talking about. Hell, some of them seem hard pressed to suppress out and out repulsion at the thought that you and I are getting turned on watching them at their craft.

“You’re liking this,” Zip speaks the truth.

Zip is not a no-homo-bro. When he finds Z-Man posing in the mirror, he insists on a side-by-side comparison. Zip turns his back to his opponent, and us, and gives a juicy flex of his right bicep and tightly packed glutes. “You’re liking this,” Zip chuckles, catching Z-Man’s glance. He’s also talking to you and me when he says, without a hint of reproach, “I see you looking.” Hell, Zip is tickled as fuck that you and I are looking at his phenomenal body.

“Is this what you guys want?!”

Permit me to fast forward a half a dozen minutes or so in this match. Zip is beating the living fuck out of Z-Man. It’s gorgeous and completely humiliating. Zip just can’t get over what a pushover this prettyboy is, after having heard about all of the gay wrestling fans who fawn over Z-Man. “All those pretty muscles won’t help you now,” Zip laughs, twisting Z-Man’s ankle viciously in a sick leg lock and making him scream. He manhandles the coverboy like a practice dummy, dragging him up into a bearhug, pounding him into a corner, and then hip tossing him hard to his back in the middle of the ring. Zip flexes his tatted pecs in a most muscular pose, first checking the mirror for the optics, and then turning his gaze directly at the camera. “Is this what you guys want!?”

Zip’s got a message for Z-Man fans

Ohfuckyes, that is most definitely what THIS guy wants! Zip wants to please some fans. He wants to deliver. He’s holding the gay gaze and looking back, unflinchingly, and demanding to know if he’s stroking us just the way we like it. I have no idea what team Zip plays for on his own time, but when he’s on our dime, he appears enthusiastically committed to delivering in the ring whatever it takes for us to unZip our pants and grab hold of the entertainment he delivers with both hands.

“Oh, I heard about you, Z-Man!”

Fuck, I love this guy. Sex and contempt pour off him like a steam shower. “Is this really THE Z-Man they brought me,” he scoffs, choking him with a barehand, bending him backward across the top rope. “I trained for a wrestling competition, for this? This is a joke,” he barks with a half-laugh at how easily he has his way with the coverboy. He face-plants Z-Man’s prettypretty face into one turnbuckle after another. “Oh, I heard about you,” Zip taunts, cranking the fuck out of a figure-4 leglock that makes Z-Man howl like a wounded animal. “And I was expecting so much more than this!”

“Come on, boy, flex those pretty muscles now!”

I know some of you hate spoilers, but then again, you know I spoil matches constantly. But seriously, this is a Hunkbash. It should hardly be a shock when I say Zip plows down Z-Man like a riding lawnmower. But this is so much more than a squash. Zip is out to do a lot more than “win.” He’s hell bent on destroying the body beautiful beefcake who, at least for the moment, possesses more BG East fans than Zip does by a factor of at least 20 to 1. “Come on, boy, flex those pretty muscles now,” Zip taunts, literally (I kid you not) standing on Z-Man’s head crushed into the mat.

“I’m about to break you in half, boy!”

He drags him up to his feet, and Z-Man is standing only because Zip his holding him up by a fistful of hair. “I’m about to break you in half, boy!” Zip scoops him up across his chest like a child and parades the battered beefcake around the ring a couple of laps before pounding him down in a sensational OTK backbreaker. And up and down again, cracking him sideways across his thigh. And again.

“I’m taking over here. I”m the new body guy!”

“That’s right,” Zip crows, his pecs bouncing and his muscled glutes flexing. “I’m the new Z-Man. I’m taking over here. I’m the new body guy!” I’m sorry to have to tell Zip that he almost certainly has not made anyone less a fan of Z-Man, laying waste to Z-Man’s fantasyman body and manhandling him so beautifully. However, I have to believe that Zip’s masterful ownership of both Z-Man’s crushable body and the narrative of this compelling match will do nothing but bring along more fans to the ZZ camp.

“I’m the new Z-Man!”

Get in line behind me! I’ve been eyefucking this magnificent specimen all along. And more importantly, Zip has been asking for it all along. The Z-Man is vanquished. Long live the Z-Man!